


the pale

by kinpika



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: How you will be remembered, Sometime between things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 01:33:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19097029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinpika/pseuds/kinpika
Summary: They would be talking about this for years to come.





	the pale

**Author's Note:**

> my friend, steph, and I were talking a little while back about Medieval Nicknames™ that our wardens would be known as, and I ended up writing this. Figured I’d post it.

A reasonably sized town, not too small, not too large. On their way back from the Brecilian Forest. Damn near overrun when they had arrived, and Alistair wasn’t one to count his few and far between blessings, but these people were. “Stay inside!” he shouts, once again, as he sees a door open _just enough_ for an arrow to threaten it. 

Whatever was guiding these particular darkspawn, it seemed to be another level altogether. Far too intelligent and guided. Even Leliana had been hampered down, taking cover behind a long since abandoned blacksmith. A pit had formed in Alistair’s stomach after their first steps out into the familiar hills of Ferelden’s landscape, and he’d ignored it. Just his luck, it seemed. But that had been days ago now.

Sten was nursing a wounded arm, not that it did much to assuage him in the way of beating a darkspawn bloody with his bare hands. Alistair was mindful of that, making a note to tell the elected (absentee) senior warden that perhaps overexposure to the blood was doing something. If they saw each other again. Be it losing this next fight, or whatever was happening at the Circle Tower, Alistair didn’t know what was going to end them all first. Maybe even the newly adopted assassin would finally put them out of their misery.

Maker, Alistair didn’t know how much longer he had left in him to bleed out. Salves and poultices and bandages were long since gone. That’s why they were in this damn town. Business in the Forest halted because Zathrian didn’t want to work with him, and Alistair knew Basilia was damn more persuasive than he could be when she wasn’t wallowing around. 

Maybe he shouldn’t have turned down the offer to take Morrigan along. Not that he would admit it aloud, of course, but what he wouldn’t do for just the slightest bit of magic now. Hah, some templar he was.

Along the hill that overlooked the town, he could see the darkspawn line then. A three day assault that looked like it was about to be ended on their terms. Well, here goes nothing. Raising his shield, arm almost wavering under the weight, Alistair doesn’t let himself think. At least they got a few good weeks out on the road. Eamon would be disappointed. Duncan would be too, getting himself into a situation like this. At the great shout from the darkspawn there’s a fire of arrows, nearly blotting out the sky. 

“Wow,” Alistair hears himself whisper, as if he was aside, watching from somewhere else.

Except, there’s a snap. A sound Alistair was quite accustomed to, mages and all, one that he had almost hoped for somewhere deep down. And he thought he had grown to actually recognise the particular ways Morrigan and Basilia whipped their magic around, but the third person was different. It’s like a careful, caring hand, finding the point of origin of his wounds, constricting it. 

But it doesn’t stop the arrows. Doesn’t stop how closer they were now, from how high they had begun to fall. Faster, a whistle ripping through the air. 

“Be ready to catch me.” 

Alistair hears the words, not quite processing them in their entirety, until he sees Basilia before him. He forgot how tall she was.

Hands stretched upwards, feet slightly apart. Time did not seem to occur to her, as a sigil spread between her fingers, growing by the second. Larger, wider, thundering. Drowning out the whistles of the falling arrows, a reflected form underneath her feet. If Basilia buckled under the weight, Alistair didn’t notice, slack jawed and admittedly in a bit of awe at the ground _moving._ Smaller rocks had picked up, floating, the ends of her robes whipping around her legs. 

This magic is not like her others. Everything else is loud and flashy. Bangs and lights, quick to end a fight and move on. There is no colour here, to tell Alistair just which school she had pulled this one from. In his few studies, huddled in corners with books that weren’t his, he had gleamed some knowledge. Not a lot, but some. This magic was muted and dull, but the hairs on his arms stood on end, and if it wasn’t for the fatigue, he might’ve said something in his blood stirred. 

Basilia shouts something, in a language Alistair hadn’t heard before, and forces the sigil upwards. A boom, that practically shakes the foundation of the town. Alistair can only watch, as the shield of pure magic lifted up, absorbing the arrows as it went. Disappearing into the sky with a clap of thunder. And, in a shower of what Alistair could only consider snow, Basilia wobbled.

 _Catch me_. He moved then, barely managing to hold her up in time. He notes, under her feet, that the sigil was burned into the ground, not like the passing moments of previous spells he had seen cast. Basilia blinked, slowly, and wiped at her nose, smearing blood. With a twisted look of displeasure, she pushed herself up, but kept a hand on his shoulder, steadying herself.

“That was the last of my reserves… for a while.” Alistair didn’t have to hazard a guess to figure that one out, nor that it would be hard for her to admit. But also dangerous for a weakened mage to be wandering in such a way. She looked mildly disappointed at her bloody nose, settling for pinching it between thumb and forefinger. Another thought looks like it comes to mind for her, except

Doors to houses slowly open. 


End file.
